Swindled (The Sandlin PI Series Book 1)

by S. E. Shepherd

  ‘Your website? You mean Facebook or something?’

  ‘No.’ Hannah put a clean white bin liner in the kitchen bin and kicked it back under the counter. ‘I have my own business.’

  ‘Really? How come you never mentioned it before? What do you do?’

  ‘I didn’t mention it because my dad thinks I’m an idiot and my mum humours me. It’s not exactly been lucrative so far.’

  ‘Is it make-up or something? A selling pyramid type of thing?’

  ‘Me? Make-up?’ Hannah laughed. ‘No. It’s an … investigation agency.’

  Lottie’s face registered surprise, but she’d obviously been raised well; she was polite. ‘Wow. That sounds interesting. So, who does the investigating? You or …?

  ‘Well, if I ever get any proper clients, it’ll be me.’

  ‘I guess it’s hard to get clients. I mean, no offence, but you don’t look much like a … you know, like a detective.’

  Hannah bristled slightly. ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘Detectives?’

  ‘Yeah. How come I don’t look like one?’

  ‘I suppose …’ Lottie considered, ‘they’re older than you. They’re usually wise old guys, who smoke too many cigarettes and keep a half bottle of malt whisky in the top drawer of their filing cabinet.’

  Hannah pulled a face, which caused Lottie to correct herself. ‘At least, that’s the stereotype.’

  ‘Well, if we’re going to use stereotypes, I’d say you don’t look or sound much like a cleaner!’ Hannah allowed her anger to burst out.

  ‘Touché.’

  ‘My point exactly.’

  Lottie put her arm around her colleague. ‘Sorry. I guess you’re fed up with hearing that detectives are all old blokes. Am I right?’

  ‘I am, yes. But, if I’m honest, I shouldn’t be mad at you. I fell into the exact same trap when I created my website.’ Hannah went on to explain how she’d used a random man’s face from Google Images, to give her company some credibility. ‘He’s exactly as you described him. It’s crazy, isn’t it? It’s not bloody 1960.’

  Grabbing her phone, Lottie asked, ‘What’s the website address?’

  ‘Oh no, don’t. I’m too embarrassed now.’

  ‘Oh shush. Don’t be daft. Give me the address.’

  Hannah did as she asked, and within seconds Lottie was staring at Sandlin Private Investigation’s homepage. ‘Yeah, he looks about right. I can see why you chose him. But … oh shit!’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘I can’t stand his name, that’s all.’ Lottie pointed at the screen, obscuring the middle-aged man’s face. ‘Let Vinnie find the answer to your question.’ She quoted the screen, with a shudder.

  ‘What’s wrong? Corny?’

  ‘No. It reminds me too much of a man I knew. Vincent. The nastiest cunt you’d ever be unlucky enough to meet.’

  Hannah did a double-take. She and Lottie swore at work. Neither one of them was averse to calling Mr Bale a fat fuck. But the venom with which Lottie spat out the c-word was shocking. ‘Wow. What did he do to deserve that?’

  ‘It would be easier to tell you what he didn’t do.’

  ‘Seriously? He sounds like a piece of work.’

  Lottie took off her tabard. ‘I just want to go home and crash out. Would you mind if we didn’t talk about him for now?’

  Hannah took Lottie’s tabard from her and hung it on the hook with her own. ‘Of course. I didn’t mean to pry.’

  ‘It’s fine. You were just asking. But … the truth is, Vincent Robinson took away everything I ever had. But I’m not in the mood to talk about it today. Can I tell you some other time?’

  Hannah nodded, feigning a lack of interest. ‘No sweat. Tell me whenever.’ But the truth was, her detective instincts were on over-drive, and right at that moment she’d have given just about anything to hear more about the mysterious Mr Vincent Robinson.

  12

  Vincent – 2013

  Vincent lay on the sofa for a few minutes, trying to get his head around the fact that his sister, Cristina, was in his place of work. He attempted numerous times to decide on an opening sentence. Should he pretend to be surprised? Look delighted? Or should he approach with caution?

  When he eventually made his way back to the kitchen and apologised to Maria for his impromptu break, she was as nice as pie. She always was. Even though she was a number of years younger than Vincent, it was clear she had a huge crush on him. Thankfully, she wasn’t a tall girl, so his lack of inches in the vertical direction didn’t put her off.

  He was still deciding if he was going to ‘go there’, so to speak. If he chose to turn his affection towards his boss’s daughter, it would have to be the real thing – commitment, marriage, children, the whole kit and caboodle, as the English liked to say. There was no way he was going to be able to simply shag Maria. That was never on the cards … sadly. Marrying Maria wouldn’t be so awful. Wait a few years and he’d undoubtedly inherit the restaurant. It could all work in his favour. But even as he contemplated it, even as he considered that Maria was that well-behaved, old-fashioned girl he had always wanted, who would be pliable and wouldn’t demand all the ridiculous equal rights that so many women expected these days, he still found himself holding back. Convinced there was more out there, he always decided to wait. Somewhere beyond the walls of this restaurant, there was a bigger, better offer, and Vincent wasn’t about to commit to Maria and her parochial little life just yet.

  Maria told him table four had placed their order and had received their first drink. All that was required on this visit to the table was a quick glance at the water jugs to see if they needed refilling, and a check of the bread basket for the same reason. Most people took no notice of the waiting staff when they were completing these tasks. In his experience, it was only when you approached the table carrying plates laden with delicious hot food, that they paused their conversation and gave you their attention.

  He was right. Gliding in, as if on rails, Vincent’s shiny shoes slid silently across the carpeted floor. He scanned the table and sussed the water and bread situation in an instant. Then, moving stealthily around the table, under the guise of tidying away the discarded pieces of foil-wrapping that the tiny portions of butter came in, he manoeuvred himself to the side of the woman he was convinced was Cristina. No one batted an eye. Not one of them was interested in his mission. He had the advantage; he could see her clearly, a good profile view, whereas her head was turned away from him ever so slightly and she was engrossed in a conversation with the man opposite her. It was the ideal opportunity to gaze at her for a few more seconds than was traditionally polite.

  It wasn’t her.

  For a moment, Vincent experienced grief. The disappointment almost floored him. He’d been so sure. So convinced he was about to speak to his sister again. Realising he probably ought to move away, he grabbed a half-full water jug and made his escape.

  As he stood behind the bar and began the ritual of topping up the ice and lemon in the jug, he used the opportunity to glance over once again at the woman. Of course it wasn’t her. That woman was too young. Cristina would be … he counted in his head … forty at her next birthday. She should be so lucky to still look that good.

  The odd feeling remained with him for the rest of the evening. Just like a dream that seems so real it manages to invade the whole day that follows it, the thought that he had seen his sister, left Vincent in a weird place.

  That night he dug out the photos of his family and went through them. His nonna was in almost all the photos he’d kept. His emotions choked him as he took in the details of her familiar face. At the back of the pile, he found a photo of Cristina. He’d been right; she did resemble the woman who’d dined in the restaurant that evening. It was a photograph of both Cristina and himself. They were laughing. She had her arm around him. Vincent remembered the look she’d given him when he’d left their home for the last time – disappointment, so unmistakable it had
almost smothered him. They’d all hated him. He knew it.

  Maria knocked on his door. ‘Are you decent?’

  An interesting question. He’d met enough people since he’d moved to the UK to learn the expression – a decent bloke. And he knew he wasn’t one of them. Putting the photos back into their box and under his bed, he called out, ‘Come in.’

  ‘I just wanted to check you were okay.’ Maria edged towards the bed on which Vincent was now lying, his tie removed, his shirt unbuttoned casually at the neck.

  ‘I’m fine, thanks, Maria.’

  ‘Are you sure? You haven’t seemed right all evening.’ She perched gently on the side of the bed.

  He moved his legs to make room for her. ‘Just tired,’ he volunteered.

  ‘You’re sure? That’s all it is?’

  ‘Of course. That tyrant of a boss …’ He smiled. It was clearly a joke.

  Maria laughed. ‘Horrible, isn’t he?’ She moved further onto the bed. Her bottom now rested gently against his leg.

  Vincent’s eyes moved to her breasts. Just for a second, then he looked away. But she’d seen it.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ She placed her hand gently on his thigh. ‘To make you feel better?’

  Shit. He felt his dick respond. His sudden erection must be as clear as day to Maria.

  ‘Mum and Dad are probably asleep and …’

  He crossed his legs. ‘Honestly, I don’t need anything. It’s nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.’ His gaze moved to the door. His instruction was clear.

  Maria looked disappointed. Removing her hand, she asked, ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  She rose from the bed. Her smile so obviously fake. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, Vincent.’

  ‘Yep.’

  She closed the door behind her, and he heard a faint sigh.

  Bloody women! He wasn’t going to get to sleep now. Not until he’d got rid of the hard-on Maria’s touch had so easily produced. He was close to jumping off the bed, running to the door and calling her back. He’d far rather pound away inside her than he would into his hand. But … his mind was invaded by images of a white wedding, his boss proposing a toast, little Marias and Vincents running under his feet. If he crossed that line he’d be stuck here forever.

  Vincent dug out his old pay-as-you-go phone. Thanks to Candy, it now contained quite a collection of nudes. She’d never stopped sending the photos, and over the last few months, she’d progressed from selfies that revealed a bit of boob to some fairly decent full-frontal shots. Some girls just wanted to show off what they had.

  Five minutes later, the need dealt with, he hid the phone back in the box of photos and fell into a deep sleep.

  He managed to struggle on for a while, but ultimately his constant rejections of Maria became a stumbling block between them, and he decided to leave.

  Moving to yet another cramped flat, much like the one he had rented up north, only here they charged twice the price for the same tiny space, Vincent settled on the outskirts of Kingshurst.

  It was in the following year that things really improved. What began as a chance encounter with Catherine Thorogood in Waitrose, would prove to be life changing for Vincent.

  13

  Lottie – 2014

  Lottie tried to alert her dad to the threat that Mr Robinson was presenting. But Douglas Thorogood seemed to see nothing menacing about him. ‘That little Italian man? What the devil worries you about him?’

  ‘Doesn’t it bug you that he keeps coming here and drinking tea with your wife?’

  ‘Drinking tea! Oh, the horror.’ Douglas raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s trying to get her to invest in things. He makes out he’s knowledgeable about the stock market, but he’s a total fraud.’

  ‘Well, he’s barking up the wrong tree with your mother. You do realise she has no control over the money side of things, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I told him that myself. But …’ Lottie couldn’t find the words to convey what concerned her so much about Vincent.

  ‘Right then, what’s to worry about? It’s keeping her happy. She’s flattered by the silly man’s interest.’

  ‘And you don’t care? You’re happy to let him suck up to her. Putting on that stupid fake accent—’

  ‘It’s not fake.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Do you think I’d let him in this house every week without doing some checking?’ Douglas asked.

  ‘So, you know all about him?’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far. But I know a sufficient amount. He’s definitely a real Italian. I’ve known enough of them in my time. His accent is genuine, but his knowledge of the stock market is not.’

  ‘So, why not just—?’

  ‘Charlotte, you’re young,’ Douglas interrupted. ‘You don’t know how these things work. I can’t explain it to you.’

  ‘Please try. I need to understand why you keep letting that man into our home. Why you stand by as he chats her up, compliments her and tries to obtain money from her, and you do nothing to stop it.’

  Douglas thought for a second, before replying, ‘Oh, what the hell. You’re nineteen; maybe you are old enough to understand. I can promise you one thing: that absurd little man will never get a penny from your mother. He can sit there with his annoyingly handsome face and talk in that slightly affected way, and he can think he’s making progress. But the truth is … he’ll get nothing.’

  ‘But why do you even …?’ This whole situation seemed beyond ridiculous to Lottie.

  ‘He makes her feel things. Do you know what I’m referring to? I’ve never been good at … umm … I never knew what to say to women to make them feel that way. She’s earned a bit of attention. She’s been a good wife. Vincent Robinson is smarmy, and he’s annoyingly full of himself, but I can live with that. For Catherine. For all she’s put up with.’

  Lottie felt a bit sick. ‘Bloody hell. You’re saying you’re allowing him to make your wife feel horny – because you never knew how to.’

  ‘Not horny. I wouldn’t put it that crudely.’ Douglas stepped away from his daughter, clearly uncomfortable.

  But Lottie wouldn’t let it go. ‘How would you put it? Tell me!’

  ‘Fine.’ Douglas shook his head with regret. ‘I’ve not been an easy man to live with. I doubt I’ve ever made her feel beautiful. Her life revolves around committees and cake sales. It’s hardly exciting. This is her chance to have what she’s always wanted. She’s like a girl when she’s with him. The girl she deserves to be.’

  ‘And what happens when he offers her more than just flattery? Is that okay with you too?’

  Douglas gave another shake of his head, this time with conviction. ‘He won’t. He’s a conman. He’s after her money, not her body. He just doesn’t realise she hasn’t got any.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous game you’re playing. What if he does decide to branch out and try a bit of adultery, along with the usual exploitation?’

  ‘Simple. She would never do it. She’s too loyal to her marriage. Bless her heart.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Certainly. She enjoys his visits. He excites her. But she’d never stray. Only in her mind.’

  ‘Jesus, I hope you’re right, Daddy.’

  ‘I am. I know she’s younger than me. I know I didn’t do too well in the good-looks stakes. That git Robinson was way ahead of me in the queue when they handed out handsome. But I also know she believes in her vows, and she’ll stand by them.’

  ‘And you’re positive about the money?’ Lottie grabbed hold of her dad’s arm. ‘He can’t con her out of anything?’

  He patted her hand. ‘Yes, I’m positive. I control the purse strings and I always will. As long as I’m alive, he’ll get nothing, and I’m not planning on going anywhere for quite some time.’

  14

  Lottie – 2019

  It was a few days before the subject of Hannah’s website cam
e up again. To her own surprise, it was Lottie who brought it up. ‘This detective work – how much do you charge per hour?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ Hannah swirled the bleach around the toilet. Poking her head around the cubicle door, she suggested, ‘Twenty pounds an hour. How does that sound?’

  Lottie drew in her breath. ‘Phew. A bit steep.’

  ‘Ten, then.’

  ‘You dropped the price too soon. You need to work on those negotiation skills.’

  ‘But you just said …’

  ‘What do I know? I’ve never hired a private investigator before.’

  ‘Before?’

  ‘What?’

  Hannah moved on to the next toilet. ‘You said you’ve never hired one before. Does that mean you’re thinking of hiring one now?’

  ‘No. Well, yes. I was thinking maybe you’d have more luck finding Vincent Robinson than I did, but …’

  Hannah dropped the bleach. Joining Lottie in her cubicle, she jumped up and down, asking, ‘Are you? Are you thinking of hiring me?’

  ‘Calm down there a minute, Magnum PI. I was just curious. And, well, I don’t want to be rude. But … what qualifies you to be an investigator? I mean what do you know that I don’t?’

  ‘I’m tenacious.’

  ‘Oh God, Han. Everyone says that at an interview. I think you need a little bit more than tenacity to find a man who doesn’t want to be found.’

  ‘Plus, I … umm … used to be in the police.’

  ‘You used to what?’

  ‘Yeah. I was in the police for … for a while. I was doing well. My superiors all said it.’

  ‘So, why did you leave?’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Hannah’s jubilant mood instantly disappeared.

  ‘Okay.’ Lottie was shocked at her sudden change of tone.